


Your Secrets Are an Open Book for Me

by LadyTP



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge, Interrogation, M/M, Minor Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge, Missing Scene, Sexual Tension, Simcoe has excellent observation skills, Tallster, implied - not actual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 20:07:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30027141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/pseuds/LadyTP
Summary: While interrogating Caleb Brewster, Simcoe draws some interesting conclusions about Brewster and his pretty captain Tallmadge. These new insights not only make him assess the rough whaler from a completely new angle but also show him the way how he can break the man.A missing somewhat AU (but perfectly plausible...) canon scene from Season 4 Episode 2 ‘The Black Hole of Calcutta’. Simcoe’s talents of observation come in handy here…
Relationships: Caleb Brewster & John Graves Simcoe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Your Secrets Are an Open Book for Me

**Author's Note:**

> Here just a short AU missing scene from Simcoe’s interrogation of Caleb. I find Simcoe’s manners of always observing, assessing and analysing people and situations highly fascinating - and this scenario popped into my head as perfectly plausible. 
> 
> Rest assured, nothing untoward actually _happens_ in this fic, this being more about psychology and tension and implied rather than eventuated.
> 
> Many thanks to wonderful [ASheepsLife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASheepsLife) for betaing!

“I’ll get it from you one way another, Brewster.”

Simcoe almost purrs the words out, softly, his tone in stark contrast with the message. Yes, he knows he will get the whaler to talk, sooner or later. There is no reason for him to huff and puff; what he says is not a threat but simply a statement of truth.

He looks at the man tied in the chair, from the bottom of his scuffed boots to the top of his curly, sweat-drenched hair. Brewster shows no signs of fear and his eyes meet Simcoe’s straight on, unwaveringly.

The silence stretches on between them, only faint sounds from the bowels of the prison complex echoing in the background. It is dark, only the flickering light of a few candles and a lantern illuminating the blackness of the room.

Simcoe sighs, then leans closer, focussing his gaze on those brown eyes.

“Who is Samuel Culper and where can I find him?”

Such a simple question.

Brewster doesn’t reply. Of course he doesn’t, Simcoe didn’t expect him to give up so easily. Yet it is good to have the purpose of the mission set up clearly from the start.

Simcoe straightens and assesses the situation. How have the tables turned: the last time they met face to face it had been him hanging from the ropes, helplessly, with this man pummelling him with his fists. He had thought at the time there was a real possibility he would die then and there – the resolve in the man’s eyes had burned him through with its intensity.

He hadn’t wanted to die, of course, but there had been moments when being so totally under the control of another had made him feel… _something_. Something dark and exciting. Thrilling in a way he hadn’t experienced for the longest time.

Simcoe also remembers him hovering in the background when that young captain had clumsily tried to get intelligence out of him. Observing, reading the situation, seemingly not part of the polite dinner discussion and yet Simcoe had felt his presence acutely. To be honest, Simcoe couldn’t fault the man for the clout he had delivered after the talks had been over – he had deliberately gone too far and the young captain had done nothing to stop him. Had he been in Brewster’s shoes he would have done the same for an insolent prisoner.

The captain had been out of his league with Simcoe, but to his credit he – Tallmadge was his name – had at least been a better sort of rebel, not one of those backcountry hicks, too big for their boots and full of arrogance, thinking they knew better than the King and the Parliament what was good for their country.

No, he had been educated, civilised, even polite - when not drawing his sword to put it through his helpless prisoner.

* * *

Simcoe had watched the two of them conversing from his cell: the captain and his lieutenant. What had struck him the most was that it hadn’t looked like a regular conversation between a superior officer and his subordinate.

No, Brewster had been looking at his captain with a strange sort of expression on his face; like a loyal dog looks at its owner, a focussed concentration that shut out everything else around him.

That alone was not completely unexpected; some officers compelled such loyalty and respect in their men. But there had been something else, too.

_Hunger._

_Need._

The slight shuffle when Brewster had moved closer to Tallmadge, their legs almost touching. Tallmadge hadn’t reacted to that as Simcoe might have expected; he hadn’t withdrawn or tried to put distance between himself and his lieutenant. If anything, he had mirrored the gesture and leaned closer as well.

Simcoe had found it interesting. Maybe the boundaries of personal space got eroded in an army life as disorganised and haphazard as one in the Continental ranks seemed to be. Or maybe it was something else.

He had entertained himself by observing the pair the whole time he had enjoyed their dubious hospitality. He had noticed that if Brewster was doting on his captain, Tallmadge too was unusually attentive to him. The looks they had exchanged had been intense, keen, familiar – even intimate. So intimate, as a matter of fact, that sometimes Simcoe had felt like an intruder into someone’s private space.

He hadn't had the opportunity to explore it then, but he had put it aside, shoved it into a corner of his mind where he stored such interesting observations, sometimes to be used later, sometimes not.

Maybe now is the time to use it.

* * *

“You know, I have means to make you talk,” Simcoe murmurs, sitting down on a chair in front of Brewster. He leans closer and rests his hands on the man’s thighs. High, far too high for it to be appropriate.

It is actually quite amusing, Simcoe has always thought. One can punch the daylights out of a man: whip him, wound him, cause all kinds of unimaginable bodily harm and he may just flinch and bear it. Some men for shorter, some for a longer time. But touch him near the groin or in any other intimate way and he recoils and loses his footing. More than once he has broken a man not with a violent touch but, almost perversely, with a gentle one. A caress, a cupping, and the strongest man can melt into a whimpering heap and spill his secrets. Out of fear, out of shame – Simcoe doesn’t really care as long as it works.

Despite what some of his comrades think, he doesn’t get any particular joy out of torturing people. Simcoe is a practical man, nothing else. If violence leads to the desired outcome, he uses it. If it doesn’t, he uses something else – as long as he gets what he wants.

Simcoe rests more of his weight on his hands, almost unconsciously registering the strength of the muscles as they tense under his hands. Thick, strong thighs – this man is not a lightweight by any means.

Yet what he does _not_ observe is the recoil he expected, a shift to pull away from his reach. Most men at least flinch when having another man’s hand so near their private parts, but Brewster only stares at him.

_Interesting._

Simcoe tests his growing hunch further by sliding his hand higher and lowering his thumbs so they brush the inner thighs of the man, almost reaching his groin. Still nothing.

_So that’s how it is._

Simcoe pulls away and looks at Brewster again, assessing him anew.

Messy hair, beard and moustache so tousled as if a wild animal had made its nest in them. Bright and alert eyes, wrinkles in their corners suggesting that this man laughs a lot, aloud and often.

He is strong too, and even in his current predicament, tied like a hog, he exudes suppressed strength, only waiting for an opportunity to explode.

He is a worthier adversary than Simcoe first thought – and exceedingly more interesting to him now.

Simcoe leans back, continuing his observations. Broad chest, strong arms, dark curly hair peeking from the neckline of his open tunic. A man like a bear.

* * *

Simcoe likes women, he really does. Especially strong women, the kind who don’t shy away from exerting themselves and their power over others. Momentarily, another pair of brown eyes come to his mind, staring at him as unflinchingly as the one opposite him now. _Anna Strong – what a woman._

Yet Simcoe is no stranger to men either. He could hardly be, having been embedded in the British education and army system from his youth. Some fumbling first experiences, some unwise attempts by older boys who had thought they could get away by targeting then thin and gangly Simcoe – only to soon realise their mistake.

It hadn’t been all unwanted though. There had been a few… Simcoe remembers one especially, a short, stout private during his first years in His Majesty’s army. Strong and hairy – and as Simcoe now realises, much like the man in front of him right now.

* * *

He thinks about what to do next; how to use this new, now confirmed intelligence to his favour. If this man has a weak point and he has just discovered it, how to exploit it to his advantage?

After a few moments, Simcoe gets up and walks to stand behind Brewster. He sees the other man tensing, trying to twist his neck to see him but without success. He places his hands on Brewster’s shoulders, resting them there gently.

“Your pretty captain, Tallmadge – do you think he misses you? Do you miss him?”

His next words are a low whisper.

“He has such a promising career in the army, doesn’t he? Such an upstanding officer, educated and distinguished. Washington’s favourite, some say.”

Brewster stills and sits rigid, his breathing shallow.

Simcoe slides his other hand at the nape on Brewster’s neck, toying with the curls.

“If a report were to be made and leaked out, anonymously, about the unnatural tastes and tendencies of this promising young officer, as witnessed firsthand by someone in the position to do so… he could kiss his army career goodbye. He might be hanged for it.”

The last part was nonsense: nobody would be hanged because of idle gossip alone – but the first part was true enough.

“The hell’re you yappin’ about?” Brewster croaks. If he was tense before, now he is stiff as a board. The cords on his neck are taut against Simcoe’s palm.

“I saw you two,” Simcoe breaths into Brewster’s ear, his mouth so close to it that if he wanted, he could easily kiss it. Maybe he should? Brewster smells of sweat, forest – but not of fear. Simcoe should know – he has smelled fear before.

“Now you’re talkin’ out of your arse. You saw nothin’.” The words lack the bravado Simcoe had expected – instead their tone is wary, almost uncertain. Hmm, maybe something _did_ happen, then and there, and he just happened to guess right.

“He is fetching, your captain, I admit that much. Those pretty blue eyes, that thick bottom lip one could lick and nibble for days. And if his tastes lean towards grizzly men like you… you’re a lucky man indeed, Caleb.”

Simcoe resists the temptation to nip at the ear so close to him. What would Brewster do if he did? He _could_ if he wanted. That, and much more. It is late at night and most of the prison guards have retired. The few remaining on duty are hunched in the guards’ room at the end of the complex.

He could slide the bolt on the door and do whatever he wanted, and none would be the wiser.

However, he has a task to do first. And for that, the best thing he can do for now is to leave Brewster to stew on his words. For him to realise that unless he wants his lover to be shamed and dismissed from the army – or the least, to be demoted – he better cough up the information Simcoe wants.

After that – who knows…

Simcoe whistles as he puts on his coat.

“I’ll leave you to your rest while I retire to write up that letter. I have means for it to make its way to the Continental camp within days. I am sure it will find an interested audience there – might even trigger memories of others who have been observant enough about the two of you.”

Just before he walks out of the door, he goes to Brewster and slides his hand from the top of his head down to his cheek, caressing it.

“And then you and I can find other ways to fill our time. His Majesty’s Royal Army is not in a hurry to let you go and I am not going anywhere either.”

The look Brewster throws at him is finally what he has hoped for: desperate, pleading. Not for his own life or wellbeing – but for his lover’s.

Yes, he has him now.

Simcoe continues to whistle all the way back to his quarters.

**Author's Note:**

> If this little fic raised any thoughts in you, please do share! Do you find Simcoe’s deductions plausible? What could happen next? Do let me know! 😁
> 
> I also have a ‘Turn’ side blog in Tumblr in [ladytp-annex](https://ladytp-annex.tumblr.com/).


End file.
